There is a new edition of Xiao Hong's prose collection "Fragments of Feelings", which is one of the "Chinese Modern Classics" series, which includes 78 essays by the author and some book briefs and letters. The book is nearly 400 pages www.biquge.info the whole book, the pages are snow-white, and the printing is exquisite. Flipping through the book, I can't help but wonder for no reason, if Xiao Hong is still alive, what would it be like to see her works so loved?

Xiao Hong's life was unsatisfactory, with an unhappy childhood, a changeable marriage, upheaval, and finally buried in a foreign country. Many of her early essays ("Commercial Street") were about lack of food and drink, hunger and cold, sitting in the house and smelling the smell of food and coriander next door, and her stomach hurting unbearably. As a result, peeled potatoes, chopped green onions tumbling in oil, and a bowl of hot rice have all become unattainable luxuries. The writer was cold and hungry, with an empty stomach, huddled and shivering on a bed without bedding. There were snowflakes floating outside the window.

It was getting dark, "like ink mixed into a basin of water." I didn't have to eat breakfast, dinner was still missing, the house was cold, the body was cold, Xiao Hong was sad about rice and firewood, and she was worried about the true taste of life: this is not a child, she is living a life, and living a life is very practical and specific, specific to a handful of rice, a handful of firewood, and a needle, and the literati are rich in imagination, and they can't eat cold when they are hungry. The writer has struggled with this contradiction all his life, and the outcome can be imagined. As Shen Congwen said: "I still dream of fighting with a pen, but in the end, I have to die in poverty and illness, and I will be finished." ”

A writer is undoubtedly a decent profession, and good works are famous through the ages, but the writer himself is often very embarrassed. Thinking about a thousand ways at night, getting up early to sell tofu, literati don't even sell tofu, and it is inevitable to be poor. Now that people have learned to be obedient, it cannot be said that there are no things to insist on creating when they are hungry, but there are fewer of them. Flipping through this book, I thought it would be good if Xiao Hong was alive, not to mention anything else, the manuscript fee for this collection of essays alone was enough for her to support for a few months, and it was not necessary to get rich, and she would never have to go hungry again.

Writers are starving, and people can taste life outside the text. (To be continued.) )